


Cherry, Rosewood, Mahogany

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Anal Sex, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Javert has a desk fetish, M/M, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The afternoon sun fell in through the window, alighted on Valjean's hair, his broad shoulders; the sliver of waistcoat that was visible gleamed with the golden embroidery at his chest. Valjean's mien was calm and composed as he sat at the desk of fine rosewood, pen in hand, thoughtful and concentrated on his task, and Javert's heart ached with love and that sudden, helpless awareness of how the tableau spread before him made a tension spring up in him that was too alike to standing before a superior at the Prefecture to ever have a place in what unexpected tender intimacy had grown between them.</p><p> <i>Written for the prompt "post-Seine sex where Javert gets his ageold fantasy of being fucked over Monsieur le Maire's desk fulfilled".</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry, Rosewood, Mahogany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



The first time it happened, they had wandered the Gillenormand's house after dinner, and found themselves in the library. Javert had idly trailed his hand over the leather-bound backs of the volumes on the shelf he was perusing, wondering whether Valjean would force him to choose a book to suffer through this evening, and then he had turned, and had found Valjean lost in thought, seated at M. Gillenormand's heavy desk of dark cherry. Something strange had happened to him then; something had stolen away his breath, had made him straighten: maybe it was the way the evening light had fallen in through the window to shine on Valjean's white locks, or the way the heavy wood had framed the still powerful frame of Valjean; there had been something in that combination of the rich, auburn waistcoat with its golden embroidery against the red-brown cherry wood that had made his heart stop for a beat, had made him think of a different moment, a different time, with a heat that had not belonged to that time and had made him quickly turn away from the sight as a flush of embarrassment warmed his face.

The second time, they were once more at the Gillenormand's house. Javert did not cherish those visits, but he bore them as he had born his duty; he had never seen sense in complaints about things that could not be changed, and although he had never had family or acquaintances to speak of, he was well aware that there were laws that governed the private life as well as the public, and that those laws posited that Valjean accept invitations by his daughter and his son-in-law. Javert, who had learned to question authority, but was still baffled by this change of fate that had thrust him not only into Valjean's bed, but also into society in the form of Valjean's in-laws, now did his best to follow these rules of that society which he had once only observed as an outsider.

Duty bade him accompany Valjean, and although he took little joy in those occasions, a part of him could not help but admire the way Valjean, who preferred his old workman's clothes when he was safely at home in the Rue Plumet, always took care to meticulously dress up for those visits. Certainly this was a harmless pleasure, to allow his eyes to settle on how a cravat of silk was neatly tied at the throat, of how a brushed, spotless coat underlined that formidable stature, Valjean's immense strength coated in finery; of how a richly embroidered waistcoat, this time a brocade of golden fleur de lys on crème, drew his eyes to that broad chest, made him imagine Valjean at home, clad in nothing but that waistcoat and the shirt beneath, slowly undoing the knot of his cravat to bare a glimpse of his throat.

It was Marius' study this time, furnished with a new desk of a violet-veined brown rosewood laden with volumes on the law and numerous letters. Cosette had retired early, for the advancing pregnancy often made her back ache now and seek the comfort of her bed, and so Marius had offered his father in law the use of his desk so that Valjean could pen a note to her before they took their leave.

The afternoon sun fell in through the window, alighted on Valjean's hair, his broad shoulders; the sliver of waistcoat that was visible gleamed with the golden embroidery at his chest. Valjean's mien was calm and composed as he sat at the desk of fine rosewood, pen in hand, thoughtful and concentrated on his task, and Javert's heart ached with love and that sudden, helpless awareness of how the tableau spread before him made a tension spring up in him that was too alike to standing before a superior at the Prefecture to ever have a place in what unexpected tender intimacy had grown between them.

With his heartbeat echoing in his ears and his cheeks flushed in the hope that this sudden, damning return to old, near-forgotten nightmarish fantasies had not been observed, he retreated, and was grateful even for the Baron Pontmercy's company to distract him from that sudden pulse between his legs as he waited for Valjean to return.

The third time, it is in the house in the Rue Plumet. Even though he cannot give up his own, cramped room, he spends more nights now in the shack behind the large house, finding peace as he breathes in the scent of Valjean's warm skin. But today, the small hut there in the overgrown garden is empty, and when he makes his way into the house, he is unsettled to hear the voices of strangers echo through rooms that are too large and too empty – almost it recalls the sound his boots make on the marble floors of the Palais du Justice, or the way his steps have echoed on the wooden floor of Madeleine's factory. He is treading in a place larger than himself, realm of men superior to him; the feeling this evokes is familiar, and when he steps into the room Cosette has declared Valjean's study, his shoulders are squared, and he stands tall and straight, arms clasped at his back, at attention without conscious thought. 

Before him, Valjean is seated at an impressive, large desk. The wood is dark – mahogany maybe, Javert thinks, trying to distract himself by following the swirls carved from the gleaming wood. Valjean is distracted and has no more than a nod and a slight smile for him as he talks to a man in a worn coat. Javert waits patiently, half embarrassed by how a familiar serenity settles in his bones. It almost feels like deception, to snatch this thing that is almost pleasure from so innocuous a moment. From their words, he can make out that the desk was a gift from the Pontmercys; the man leaves Valjean with instructions for how to care for the wood, and a bottle of linseed oil, and Javert, who knows that he has every right to step towards them and take his place by Valjean's side as friend of the family, nevertheless lingers in his position of obedient patience, idly imagining himself on his knees before the desk the next Sunday to rub the oil into the wood with a soft cloth, following every line and every swirl with his hands until the wood gleams and he reaches that serenity of meditation that Valjean finds in kneeling before the altar.

Even to him, that comparison seems blasphemous; a small flush heats his cheeks, and when he looks up in alarm, he finds that the man has left, and Valjean is looking at him from behind that impressive desk. There is a familiar warmth in Valjean's eyes, but he does not smile; instead, he seems strangely focused, a crease between his brows as if he were contemplating a puzzling problem, and Javert suddenly becomes aware once more of how ridiculous he must look, still clad in his uniform, the greatcoat closed over it, keeping his distance from the man who deserves his kisses instead of false idolization. He swallows, clenches the hands that are suddenly damp with sweat behind his back, and then Valjean gives him a nod, and leans back against the chair carved from the same mahogany as the desk. Javert's throat is dry again at the way Valjean looks, seated there behind that expanse of gleaming, massive wood, radiating a quiet strength that makes Javert straighten even more by instinct, that old part of him that had once been forced to acknowledge this man as his superior for many years woken after long dormancy.

"Javert," Valjean says, still unsmiling even though there is nothing in his voice that would hint at unhappiness - and Javert has spent too many nights sleeping skin to skin in that small hut in the garden to ever doubt his welcome. This is home, more than his lonely room ever was.

Still, something is different, and when he carefully steps closer, Valjean sits up, and looks him up and down - yes, Javert thinks, breathless now, yes, there is something deliberate in it, there has to be – and then Valjean tilts his head a little, and there is a small smile on his lips that is almost amusement.

“Please, Inspector, take off your coat. It is a warm day, and I fear I might keep you longer than usual today.”

For a long moment, Javert does not know what to answer. He is flushed with heat – it is ridiculous! They are not children, to play a game of pretend! - and yet, something within him wants to take this thing that is offered to him, and allow himself just for one moment to sink into this guilty dream. Already his hands are undoing the buttons of his coat; obedience is natural, ingrained through a lifetime of service to better men, so that it is almost a relief to settle into that position again, to know himself as this man's inferior without the taint of the suspicion that had weighed so heavily on his mind in the past.

Valjean's lips twitch a little as if he is suppressing a smile at Javert's instant obedience; Javert, who knows how ridiculous this need in him is, nevertheless finds himself absurdly grateful when Valjean smoothes his hand over his desk and continues the pretense. “You seem intrigued by my new desk, Inspector.”

Javert flushes again. “An impressive desk for an impressive man, Monsieur le Maire,” he hears himself say, and feels even greater heat rise to his face – ah, it is one thing to be plagued by nightmarish visions in the darkness of his bed when he is forced to use his own hand to give his body ease. But to say these things out loud, it is ridiculous, he is ridiculous, and--

“Come here for a moment, Inspector.” Javert obeys again, and walks to stand by Valjean's side, tension winding through his body so that he feels like a wrong word now will make him break into nervous laughter and ruin everything, or worse, spend himself in his trousers to complete his humiliation.

The look Valjean gives him is mild, although Javert is certain that he must be able to see the trembling of his hands. “I was wondering if you would be able to assist me, Javert.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” he says immediately, and then his breath catches in his throat when Valjean rests a hand on his thigh, making it more than obvious what it is he desires. They have never interacted like _this_ , back then, and he is lightheaded, still thinking that this is wrong, that it had never been like this, and then Valjean's palm presses against where his cock is entrapped behind fabric that refuses to stretch, cheap wool that he knows will chafe with every movement now. Valjean's hand is warm and very certain, as a superior should be, he thinks nonsensically, and then at last his ability to think is swept away by the throb of his pulse and the sound of his heavy breathing, and he yields to the need within him and the hand upon him with something that is almost relief.

“It is a selfish thing to ask of you, Inspector--”

“No, no, Monsieur, you have every right to ask – that is, I am proud to serve you in, in whatever way is needed...” He trips over his words, his face burning, but worse is the burning of his flesh, that slow grinding of Valjean's hand against his prick, and then Valjean stands. His hand is at the small of his back, firm and certain, and Javert allows himself to be pushed forward, to bend over the desk, breathing in the scent of the linseed oil and the fresh wood as he obediently moves his hand to open his trousers.

He pushes them down; his cock presses against the unyielding wood as they tangle around his thighs, and he thinks for a moment of how he must look. Shame curls through him, followed by guilty excitement, and even before Valjean's hands are on him again he spreads his legs as far as he can, raises his hips, knowing himself eager and shameless even while he tells himself that it is nothing more but simple obedience to a superior's wish.

When Valjean's fingers touch him, they are slick with what has to be the linseed oil; those thick, calloused pruner’s fingers that are so incongruous for the well-read mayor open him up carefully, but without any hesitancy. The oil makes it easy to bear – almost too easy, and he moans in anticipation of the ache that is to come as they slowly move within him. 

When the head of Valjean's cock presses against him at last, he is eager for that too, begging for it in the way he arches and raises his hips, and then Valjean's arm settles on his back, and he goes very still, his heart beating even faster although Valjean is careful to keep his weight off him. At his reaction, Valjean stills as well, and then, very carefully, he presses down, uses his strength to keep Javert in place, and Javert, who would never dream of resisting this thing he has desired for so long, makes a strangled, embarrassing sound of need, panting now, trying to arch against the strength that entraps him against the massive desk. 

He cannot escape, he cannot – he cannot move, and as Valjean pushes inside, that thick cock filling him so slowly that by the end there are tears in the corner of his eyes just from how much he needs this _harder_ , this is all he can feel, the strength of Valjean on his back, the unyielding, heavy wood beneath him, and it is better than any fantasy has ever been.

The slow stretch drags a moan from him, and a “Please, Monsieur,” that earns him a careful thrust. Sparks ignite somewhere within him and he arches, fingers scrambling at the desk; he fears his nails might leave marks, but at the same time he cannot help but writhe and gasp and plead for more with the way he helplessly tries to push himself back onto Valjean's cock.

“Please!” he begs again, and Valjean stills once more, and then presses down on him a little more, thrusts a little harder, and Javert has never known before that helplessness is a thing that will rush sweet and sinful through his veins, a golden ichor that scalds him from within and makes him moan brokenly. If Valjean was experimenting upon his body, his response must have been pleasing; with every choked sound of overwhelmed need that spills from his throat, Valjean seems to gain courage, and soon his nails scour the wood as Valjean fucks him so hard that he cannot breathe from the ecstasy of it. To be taken, to be overwhelmed, to be Valjean's – the old fantasy is a hazy vision now, a mirage swimming before his eyes; it is hard to keep it in his mind when all he can think of is the way Valjean fills him, the sweet stretch of every powerful thrust, the scent of the polished wood, the flexing of the muscles of Valjean's arm against his neck. When Valjean comes inside him, it is he who cries out, still on the edge, still trembling; the sensation of Valjean's spend hot and wet inside him, trickling down his thighs when Valjean pulls out, is nearly more overwhelming than the sharp, painful edge of his own desire. 

His arms shake as he tries to prop himself up on the desk, panting and achingly hard, and he flushes with mortification when he sees that his nails have indeed left small marks in the wood. 

“Monsieur,” he says, so breathless with guilt at the sight that he almost forgets that all of this has been pretense, “ah, Monsieur, forgive me, your desk!”

Valjean's hand brushes against his cock again and he tries to swallow the sound that wants to escape. He turns his head; Valjean is standing so close that he can pant his need into his neck as those slick fingers close around his cock. 

“Inspector, it almost looks to me as if there is a task left undone?” Javert is too far gone to do anything but bite back a moan, although he shakes his head in helpless denial even as Valjean's fingers toy with the wet, sensitive head.

“It will leave stains,” he manages to say at last, sounding prim even to his own ears although he cannot help but feel offended at the mere thought of the new desk ruined, and then Valjean's hand lets go of him, and he is forced to sit on the edge of the desk. More of the linseed oil is poured over his cock; he gasps again at how good it feels, embarrassed at the same time by the oil that drips off him onto the polished wood, and then Valjean's hand is on him again. He is so slick that Valjean's hand massaging him with controlled, focused movements is unbearably good; he comes almost before he realizes, panting through clenched teeth as he watches the obscene splash of his come all across the dark wood.

“There, Inspector. Never let it be said that I do not know how to reward a job well-done,” Valjean says, and Javert bites back a weak curse at how pleased with himself Valjean sounds. The hand that is still dripping oil releases his softening cock at last, and then Valjean's fingers trail through his spend, and he has to swallow a sound of protest as he watches that beloved, rough hand rub his come into the polished surface of the new desk in lazy circles. It sends a jolt through his soft prick to see the oil and his spend darken the fine mahogany as it sinks into the veined wood; his breath escapes through his teeth with a hiss, and Valjean, Valjean does not cease what he is doing, even though he turns his head to watch Javert now, a knowing smile on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing as if after all the ludicrous things they have done, Javert's reaction to _this_ is what will finally make him laugh.

“The carpenter said the wood should be oiled again after a week,” Valjean says at last, and Javert is past embarrassment now, does not even let him finish the sentence. 

“Monsieur, allow me, please,” he says, and Valjean's smile deepens. “It would be an honor to take care of that for you next week.”

“As you wish, Inspector. Your help is truly invaluable.” Valjean bends forward so that the words brush against his ear in an intimate whisper, and that, finally, is enough, and Javert lets go of the pretense with relief, exchanges it for the pleasure of his hands in Valjean's soft, white locks, and gives voice to his gratitude with kisses, balancing right there on the edge of the new desk, which, he hopes, the Baron Pontmercy will never inspect too closely.


End file.
